he
Galata bridge! In reality this bridge only joined old Stamboul
to Pera across the Golden Horn – but Nikolai had
the impression that it was joining Europe to Asia. Across
it walked or clattered the whole world or so it seemed
to him. Turkish and Kurdish porters half trotted across – bent
forwards with huge packs or cases on their backs attached
to a thong which passed across their foreheads, calling
out “Make way! Make way!” Turkish ladies, mostly
still veiled, passed towards Stamboul to go shopping in
the great bazaar or moved the other way towards Pera to
go to the Taksim gardens. Portly merchants, Greek or Armenian,
some still wearing the Ottoman fez, but many sporting panama
or trilby hats and smart canes, strolled across. Allied
seamen of all kinds swaggered past, staring around. Peasants
from the nearby fields of Thrace or from the Asian side
rode across on donkeys, even here in the city. Occasionally
there would even be a shepherd from the hills driving a
flock of sheep. Modern electrified trams, crowded to the
doors, would clatter by and then, plodding along behind,
would come a camel loaded with goods. In the middle of
all that bustle, weaving their way in and out between them
all, Nicolai saw new-fangled modern motor-cars.

Staring at all this he also recognised compatriot Russians
of all types – émigrés, refugees, well
dressed ladies and smart officers. He also saw broken-down
soldiers who had left their commands now interned outside the
walls, preferring to take their chances in the city, most of
them evidently living rough and as far as he could see without
hope.

He had never seen anything like it – but then neither
had the elderly Turks sitting at the cafes on the shore at
each end of the bridge puffing on their narghilehs and gazing
with hooded eyes at all this life which had invaded their ancient
city – a city now occupied by the troops of a Christian
power for the first time in over four hundred and fifty years.
The Armenians and the Greeks were beginning to ‘swagger’ a
bit themselves. No one gave a thought to the rumours of a Turkish
revival in the Anatolian interior – after all the British
were here and the Greek army was close by and also in Smyrna.
The old Turks smoked on silently and watched.

Nikolai had to catch his breath. He walked over to the side
of the bridge. Leaning against the iron rails, he looked out
at the harbour and all about him. On his right was Stamboul – the
original city – sheltering behind the great Theodosian
walls still largely intact. Stamboul was Turkish despite containing
both the Greek and Armenian Patriarchates. Dominated by the
great mosques sitting on the top of the hills with their wonderful
shallowly-rounded domes and pencil-like thin minarets silhouetted
against the sky, it contained the great covered bazaar where
most of the business of the city was carried out. On his left
was Pera, founded originally as a suburb by the Genoese but
now the centre of the modern city. Pera was populated by all
the races of the Empire, but here the Turks were still a minority.
Here lay all the bars and restaurants, the hotels and all the
burgeoning nightlife of the city, and it was to this side that
Nikolai turned.

He turned and walked up the hill, not bothering to take the
funicular, to the Grande Rue de Pera, and strolled along this
main road with its trams towards Taksim. Near Tokatlians tea
rooms he found a music shop. He then spent the next hour trying
out and putting back violin after violin, both new and secondhand.

His problem was that he was not entirely sure that this money
taken out of their precious capital was going to be well spent.
He knew that he was a competent violinist, but would there
be any work available at the end? None of the instruments was
less than at least six of his precious gold pieces. Everyone
knew that Russian gold was not as valuable as Turkish. Nicolai
dithered. Whenever this happened to him his mind would always
go back to his father – Count Androv – “Any
decision, my boy, is better than no decision at all, even if
it is wrong. Now snap out of it – get on, move lad move!”

But in those days the count was living in a world where he
was totally sure of himself and his surroundings, and where
he was privileged. A wrong decision by the old count was never
likely to be fatal. But for Nikolai ...

Nikolai felt faint and stifled. The Armenian salesman, probably
related to the owners, was clearly getting impatient. Over
in the corner another young man who had a violin case under
his arm was fingering some sheet music preparatory to making
a purchase. The salesman muttered some clearly disparaging
remarks in Armenian to this young man, in which Nikolai heard
the word ‘Russner,’ which must be referring to
him. He turned away feeling sick and hopeless – he could
not decide. He sat down dejectedly on the only chair in the
shop. The other customer snapped at the salesman, who blushed
deeply and went back behind the counter. The young man who
had retorted at the salesman came over, looked down at Nikolai
and said, speaking in French, “Good morning, monsieur,
are you not feeling well?”

“I’m fine, thank you monsieur – I’ve just
come over a little faint. I’ll be all right in a moment.”

“Count Nikolai Androv, at your service,” he said in
English, without thinking. At this the young man smiled and
himself
replied in English, a language with which he seemed more
at ease,
“You appear to have a problem in choosing a violin. Perhaps
I could help, I am myself a violinist.”

Nicolai immediately warmed to this young man who appeared
so sympathetic, without even knowing what problem was exercising
his mind.

“Well, sir, the fact is that my means are limited and it is
true that I do have a problem, but it is not a problem
of choice of instrument.”

Vahan Asadourian was a music student from the University
of Stamboul, who had never completed his degree due to
the circumstances
which had intervened during the war. He was an Armenian
from Caesaria who had managed to survive those traumatic years.
He gave the young Russian to whom he had taken an immediate
liking, perhaps in reaction to the rudeness of his compatriot,
a shy smile and said –

“Count, my dear sir, problems are always worth sharing with
others, perhaps I might be able to help. Would you accept
my invitation for a coffee together. Let’s leave this dreary
shop. I can’t find the Haydn quartet I am looking
for in any case.”

Curtly nodding at the assistant who was trying to exude
disapproval in their direction, he led Nikolai out of the
shop, and they
went a little further down the road to the Tokatlian building
and into the front cafe, by the main door.

“Iki kahve – shekerli – is that all right Count
Nikolai?”

“Fine, but please I am Nikolai Petrovitch.”

And the two young men, carefully appraising each other, entered
into a long conversation with easy familiarity as if they
had known each other for a long time. Nicolai saw a short rather
squat figure sporting the ubiquitous Turkish-style crisp
black moustache, dressed fairly formally in suit and tie, but not
wearing a fez. Strong features but not very refined – no
sign of any great sensitivity, not at least in the face. Big
brown eyes like most Armenians Nicolai had ever encountered.
Vahan, for his part, saw a young man, clearly younger than
himself and much more conventionally good looking. Wild rather
unruly fair hair, but with very black eyes – could
there be a touch of Mongol blood.

Their difference in age was only two years but to Vahan
it seemed enormous and brought out in him a paternal feeling.
He had always been the oldest in his family, used to looking
out for his younger brother. On the other hand, Nicolai
thought
to himself at the same time that here was a young man who
had seen nothing of life as yet. They talked and gradually
Nicolai’s
problem became clear.

“Well, Nicolai, my friend, I understand your problem completely.
Obviously you cannot present yourself anywhere for a musical
post without having your own violin. On the other hand
you are worried at spending such a large proportion of the family
money in case after it has gone, you can’t find a
job. Furthermore you are right, as I’m afraid that
Russian musicians are two a penny here at the moment. We
are inundated
with Russian orchestras, Russian folklorists, Russian tearooms...”

Vahan paused for a moment then continued – he was after
all two years older wasn’t he?

“The answer is simple. You take my violin. Do the rounds. If,
after going round everywhere you still can’t find
any work, at least you will have held onto your precious
gold pieces.
I’ll give you a week, and when you do find work you
can come and use your money wisely to buy a violin from
that supercilious
shopkeeper.”

“Vahan, my friend, that is wonderful. But what will you do meanwhile?”

“Ah well, you see, while I have kept up my playing – I
have a circle of friends and we meet and play chamber music
together – I have not carried on with music as a
career. You know, I suppose, of the terrible events that
took place
in Anatolia five years ago? I had to give up my studies.
My father, one of the first to be arrested and deported,
survived
and in due course turned up here and opened up a small
business. I now help him in that business. I am afraid
that the world
has changed and a career in music is no longer an option
for me.”

“And the rest of your family?”

There was a short silence as Vahan looked at Nikolai, not quite
knowing what to say.

“My younger brother – Raffi – ran away and managed
to survive. He is also now here and working with my dad.
He’s
about your age, I think.”

Nikolai said nothing, waiting.

“Yes – ah well – my mother and my sisters with their
children all eventually had to leave their home on those
awful deportation marches – despite all my efforts. They
were never heard of again, like so many others.”

“
I’m so sorry – I shouldn’t have pressed
you.”

There was another short silence, and then Vahan jumped
up and said, “Look, I have to go. Here is my violin. We live
up near Taksim, just round the corner from the Park hotel.
Here is the address – please come tonight in any
case and meet my family. We are an all-male household because...
er... well, yes... as you know. Anyway, by all means try
the manager here, but they tend to take only Armenians.
There
are
many night clubs around in this area, but your best bet
is the Pera Palace hotel which is further down. Make absolutely
sure that they know that you have a wide repertoire and
not
just Russian folk music. I am afraid the town is beginning
to get saturated with Russian folk music and Russian dancing
girls and Russian restaurants.”

Vahan pressed the violin onto Nikolai, paid the bill and
hurried away. Nikolai stood outside for a moment and watched
as Vahan
walked briskly up towards Taksim. He pondered on the fact
that his only experience of Armenians in Russia was as
merchants and shopkeepers. In aristocratic circles they
had a reputation
as petty bourgeois money-grubbers not likely to be generous
or open-spirited. Yet, here he had been trusted with a
fairly valuable object despite the fact that their acquaintance
was
only that of a few hours. Nicolai was aware that he had
particularly
trustworthy looks – people tended to trust him straight
away – but this encounter was unusual. He wondered about
this new friend – was he perhaps a touch naive. He
turned to go back into Tokatlians to see the manager.

Meanwhile, Vahan hurried home. He had a rendezvous for
tea at The Dansant room back at Tokatlians. The war had
changed
everything. It was now perfectly acceptable for a young
man and a young girl from good families to go out together
unchaperoned.
However, even so, there was no question of young Nerissa
Avakian being allowed to stay out late during night-time.
Vahan never
questioned this for a moment. The city was full of foreigners – French,
British and Italian soldiers of the occupation forces commanded
by the English General Harrington. They were relatively
well-disciplined, but the town was also full of seamen
of all nations and refugees
of all kinds. The American fleet was in port and fights
were regularly breaking out between the British and American
sailors.

That absolute certainty which had existed under the old
Ottoman culture that no lady walking in the streets, veiled
or not,
would ever be molested, no longer applied as the brash
values of the West began to intrude into the city.

Vahan had said nothing about these meetings with the young
Nerissa to his old-fashioned and puritanical father, despite
the fact that he knew that his father would probably highly
approve of any developing relationship with the wealthy
and highly respected Avakian family. It was as if the knowledge
that his father would push him on inhibited him in some
way.
His younger brother Raffi, tougher and more worldly-wise
than him, had however been told all about it. He was at
home when
Vahan arrived.

“Hey Raffi, my soul, please tell Siran not to include me in
the dinner tonight.”

“Well, well, brother, going out dancing again. What you need
is one of those painted ladies in the Bayram Sokagh.”

“Don’t be coarse, Raffi. Look I’m in a hurry – the
university classes will be closing soon. Come up and chat
while I change.”

And he hurried up the steep stone staircase to his room
at the top of the tall narrow house. Raffi came strolling
up
after him. He made a point of almost always disagreeing
with anything
his elder brother said, though he would then often adopt
those very same thoughts with his own friends later as
if they were
his own. He would never admit it even to himself but he
secretly deeply admired his brother. However, Raffi considered
he
had his own feet firmly planted on the ground, while his
brother
was a mere dreamer – an intellectual – a musician
for heaven’s sake.

Raffi thought that Vahan was still a virgin, whereas he
himself... Nevertheless, it was always the same. Life was
considerably
more interesting when Vahan was around. He sauntered into
Vahan’s
room and leant against the door.

“Vahan, why don’t you tell baba about your meetings
with that Avakian girl?”

“Miss Avakian to you, my lad.”

“Yes – well whatever. If you’re serious, and you
certainly seem to be, you’ll have to let him know – and
anyway why not? She sounds very suitable.”

“Oh Raffi, shut up. I can’t possibly make any serious
move, could I. Think – her father is one of the wealthiest
merchants in town and I haven’t even a home I can
bring her to. He’s already looking around for suitable
young men – I know. I would need my own home, and
we can’t
afford it. After all she couldn’t come here – there
is no woman in the house. If mother was alive and here
... well, no matter.”

“Have a pleasant afternoon, brother, but I still say that the
ladies in that street behind ...”

“Raffi, you’re one-track minded. I’ve got to go.
Sort it out with dad please as you usually do.”

Vahan embraced Raffi as he hurried past him and down the
narrow stairs. At the bottom, in the tiny hall before the
front door,
stood yet another young man leaning against the door of
the sitting room. Thin, looking under-nourished as he always
did regardless of how much he ate, about sixteen, he smiled
up
at Vahan.